Cave In
by JoAnn Stuart
Summary: Can Johnny survive a shift with Brice? Or will the experience cause him to cave?
1. Chapter 1

**Cave-In**

_By JoAnn Stuart _

_This story is set shortly after the events in "After The Exam." It's a fluffy little interlude before the next story in the arc, but we do learn some interesting things about Brice. This story is rated K+_

_"Cave-In" ©2000 JoAnn Stuart. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. and Universal Studios. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. The settings and characters are fictitious, even when a real name may be used. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and is not intended to suggest that the events described actually occurred._

_Thank you to Mary for the medical beta. This one is for you. As always, thank you to CJ for the zero tolerance of laziness and for the html stuff. Originally posted on CJ Smith's website, **Station 51**._

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* * *

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Brice was just exiting the locker room as Johnny entered. Calling out a cheery, "Morning, Brice," Johnny extended his hand to the other paramedic. "Glad to be working with you today."

Disbelief flashed briefly over Brice's normally undemonstrative features, before being replaced with the mask of calm self-assurance that he usually presented to the world. While the two had never worked together as a paramedic team, they both served on the paramedics' advisory committee, which Brice chaired, and the experience had given him the distinct impression that Gage did not like him. And, truth be told, Brice did not particularly care for the seemingly disorganized and rambling style of the other paramedic, either. "Good morning, Gage." Brice curtly shook the proffered hand once and continued on his way.

Smile still pasted on his face, Johnny nodded, determined to make the shift a good one. Always one to give another the benefit of the doubt, he hoped the horror stories he had heard were greatly exaggerated. While Brice's fussy, perfectionistic behavior was irritating and his slavish adherence to the manual annoying, Johnny knew the other paramedic to be skilled at what he did from first hand experience. And beyond that, the two had something else in common that Johnny was curious about. Both had recently lost their paramedic license due to errors with the recertification exam. Johnny really wanted to know how Brice had reacted to that.

* * *

As the rest of A-shift headed off for their morning cup of coffee after inspecting the apparatus, Johnny and Brice remained in the engine bay to perform the daily equipment check and assess the level of supplies remaining from the previous shift. Johnny was putting the bio-phone away as he watched Brice rearrange the drugs in the box. "What are you doing, Brice?"

"I'm sorting the drugs by alphabetical order, front to back in columns. It is more efficient if they are always in the same place."

"We usually arrange them by frequency of use. Put the lidocaine and the epinephrine in the front. The Pitocin and the diazepam in the back," Johnny commented helpfully.

"Since I am not familiar with your usage patterns, it is better to organize the drugs alphabetically. If everyone did this, we would all be far more efficient when we work out of other stations."

Brice decisively snapped the drug box closed and replaced it on the squad. Next, he pulled down the trauma kit and began inventorying the contents. Satisfied that the supply level was adequate, Brice reorganized and straightened the materials inside the box with precision while Johnny stood watching over his shoulder, expression dubious. Brice explained as he worked, "I find that it's more efficient to have the Betadine ointment and tincture plus the 4x4s here, and the IV extension sets plus the various micro drip solution administration sets arranged by gtts/ml over here."

"Uh, okay." The arrangement of supplies in the boxes seemed a small thing. Johnny could let it go.

Straightening from his task, Brice returned the trauma box to the squad and held out his hand. "Keys, Gage."

"Uh, I'm going to drive today." Relinquishing the rare opportunity to drive the squad was a bit harder to do.

"The compartments need to be locked."

Johnny didn't move. "We never lock the compartments."

"The regulations clearly state that the compartments are to be locked at all times."

"We're right here with the squad. Nothing's going to happen. Besides, it's quicker if you don't have to mess with unlocking the doors all the time."

"If someone steals your supplies and equipment because you failed to lock the compartments, you will be considerably less efficient than the two seconds required to unlock the doors."

Johnny wanted to raise another objection, but he couldn't think of a good argument with which to counter Brice. Technically, the man was correct. With an irritated sigh, he fished the keys from his pocket and tossed them to Brice, who efficiently locked the doors. Unconsciously mirroring Brice's earlier gesture, Johnny extended his hand, "Keys, Brice."

"I'll put them on the hook by the call station."

"Right. Just remember, I'm driving."

"You are the senior partner," Brice agreed blandly.

Johnny let his hand drop back to his side, his lips tightening as his resolve to make this a good shift began to fray just a bit around the edges. "I'm going to get a cup of coffee. Are you coming?"

"No. I'm going to the dorms to carry out my assigned duty," Brice said briskly as he crossed the engine bay.

Feeling vaguely guilty, Johnny headed the opposite direction to the kitchen. Noting the mild irritation on the paramedic's face when he entered the room, Chet asked with an amused smirk. "Where's Brice?"

"Going about his assigned duties while the rest of us inefficient slobs drink coffee."

Chet arose as Johnny was pouring himself a cup of coffee, and made a show of looking in both ears. "No smoke yet. Either you're brain dead or Brice is losing his touch."

"Ha, ha."

"Don't expect any sympathy from the rest of us, Pal. We've had more than our fair share of Brice shifts."

"Can it, Kelly," warned Cap. "Coffee break is over. Move it."

Johnny turned to dump his coffee down the drain. "Finish your coffee, Gage. The latrine can wait another minute." Cap's expression was mildly amused as he considered the composition of his crew this day. Johnny's shortness on patience was inversely proportionate to Brice's annoyance factor.

* * *

"Station 51. Child trapped. 214 Tillman Avenue. 2-1-4 Tillman Avenue. Cross Street Galway. Time out 8:23."

Cap acknowledged the call and handed Johnny one slip of paper. Johnny passed it over to Brice as he started up the squad and switched on the lights and siren.

"What a way to start the day. Every time we get a call for a child, it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut."

"Anxiety about a rescue before we've even encountered the scene is counterproductive," said Brice, eyes on the cross traffic.

"Are you telling me that rescues involving children don't bother you?" Johnny asked incredulously, sparing a glance at Brice.

"Car on the right. Becoming emotionally involved in a rescue clouds judgment, which leads to inefficiency and mistakes."

"These are people, Brice, not rescues."

"We can best serve the victim, any victim, if we maintain our professional distance, Gage," Brice stated with cool equanimity.

Johnny made no reply, focusing his full attention on driving through the last of the rush hour traffic as they sped to the address.

* * *

Cap reached the front of the house first. Just as he raised his hand to knock, a distraught woman flung the door wide and clutched the sleeve of his jacket, tugging him through the entrance as she spoke. "Please hurry! My daughter is stuck and I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself with her struggling!"

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked as he freed his arm from the woman's grasp. The sounds of a crying child could be heard from within.

She darted back inside without answering Cap. "Mommy's coming right back, honey! The nice firemen are here to help you!"

Just inside the front entrance Cap observed a red-faced and tearful four-year-old girl with her head caught fast between two cast iron railings midway up a staircase. If her wails served as any evidence, the girl did not seem to be experiencing any respiratory difficulties. He turned to call back out the doorway to the others still coming up the walk, "I think she's okay, but she's got her head stuck between the slats in the staircase."

Johnny smiled and relaxed at bit. Although rescues involving children always set his heart pumping just a bit faster, he figured that this would probably be an easy one. Upon entering the house, he set the trauma kit down by the foot of the stairs and walked to where the little girl's head poked out through the railings.

"Ma'am, you've got to try to get her calmed down a bit, okay?" he said to the woman on the stairs who was agitatedly patting her child's back. "And that means you've got to calm down, too. Everything's going to be okay now." Flashing his best smile at the little girl, he said, "Well, it looks like you've got yourself stuck, huh? Let's see about getting you out."

He reached up to see if he could gently ease the child's head back through. "Hmm. You did a good job, sweetheart. What's your name?"

"Her name is Kimmie," supplied the mother, moving aside to make room for Brice, who had joined her on the stairs. While the little girl had calmed down to the point that she no longer sobbed hysterically, she still cried in soggy, little hiccoughs.

"Hi, Kimmie. My name's Johnny. We're going to get you out. It feels like your mama already tried to use some baby oil, huh?"

"Yes, I did. When that didn't work, I called you."

"I don't think I can push her head back through without hurting her," said Johnny, looking up at Brice.

"I concur. It looks like we'll have to cut this," commented Brice, eyeing the railing.

Ear-splitting shrieks greeted this pronouncement as the little girl frantically tried to jerk her head back through the railing.

"Hold on to her!" Johnny yelled, as he reached through the slats for the little girl's shoulders. "It's okay, Kimmie! No one's going to hurt you! No one's going to hurt you!"

Once they got her calmed back down, the woman explained, "We just moved to this house a week ago. My husband caught her trying to poke her head through the railing a couple of evenings ago and he told her that if she stuck her head through there, he would have to cut it off."

"Kimmie, no one's going to cut your head off. Your Daddy was just teasing you," Johnny soothed as he pushed Kimmie's hair back from her face. "Ma'am, does she have a favorite blanket or something? We'll make a little tent while my partner is c-u-t-t-i-n-g, so she won't get so upset." Johnny patted the little girl while the mother went to fetch the cover. "Say, Kimmie, do you watch Sesame Street?"

Kimmie nodded mournfully.

"Who's your favorite?"

A wet snuffle was the only reply.

"Who's your favorite, Kimmie? I like Cookie Monster."

"Yeah, you would, Gage," said Chet, who had reappeared with a pair of cutters from the engine.

"Keep those behind your back, Chet," advised Cap, moving to block the shorter firefighter from the little girl's line of sight.

Ignoring Chet, Johnny continued, "Do you like Cookie Monster, Kimmie? Do you know the Cookie Monster song?" Many an afternoon spent in the company of his partner Roy's young daughter had taught him to not only recognize all the characters on Sesame Street, but learn to sing a lot of the tunes, as well.

Kimmie watched Johnny cautiously, fingers in her mouth, still not verbally responding, but no longer crying.

"C is for cookie! It's good enough for me! Cookie, cookie, cookie starts with C!"

"Good grief," muttered Chet.

Just then the mother returned with a blanket. Johnny interrupted his song to say, "Okay, here we go. Let's make a little tent over your head. Ma'am, why don't you come down here on the step below your daughter and join us in the tent?"

Brice exchanged places with the woman and arranged the blanket over the threesome, while Chet came up the stairs with the cutters.

"See? Isn't this fun, Kimmie?" encouraged the mother. "The fireman is going to get you out now and it won't hurt at all."

"Put your arm around her and keep her still," Johnny instructed, before launching into the Cookie Monster song again, with the mother joining in, to distract the little girl from the noise of the cutters. Soon Chet had a piece of the rail removed, and the mother pulled Kimmie back through.

"If you'll bring her downstairs, we'd like to check her out," said Brice.

"Why don't you have a seat right here? You can keep her in your lap," suggested Johnny.

Johnny placed the small BP cuff on the little girl. "Did you ever see one of these? It just goes 'foofa foofa' and squeezes your arm a little bit. It doesn't hurt."

Brice looked at Johnny as if the other paramedic had taken leave of his senses. "Pulse 90, respirations 16."

"BP 95 over 65," Johnny said as he removed the stethoscope from his ears. He reexamined Kimmie's head and neck for any signs of bruising or swelling. "Looks good."

"She does not appear to have suffered any injury. If you have any concerns, you may take her to your family physician," Brice informed the mother, as he replaced the BP cuff and the stethoscope into the trauma kit.

"Oh, I can't thank you enough!" exclaimed the woman, rocking her daughter in her lap.

Johnny knelt down at eye level in front of Kimmie. "Now, you don't go sticking your head through there anymore, okay?"

Kimmie buried her face in her mother's shoulder in reply.

"Bye, now!" Johnny waved, as he followed Brice out the door.

"C is for kookie! Kookie, kookie, kookie!" sang Chet as the two paramedics approached the squad.

"That's 'C is for cookie,' Chet. Don't you know anything?" grinned Johnny as he put the equipment back into the bay. "Man, I think I'm deaf from all that screaming. That girl has good lungs."

"We wish we were. Then we wouldn't have had to listen to you singing," Chet shot back as he hopped up into his seat on the engine.

"I think your singing was unwarranted. She was calm enough without it," said Brice when Johnny joined him in the squad.

"Well, it didn't hurt!" Johnny replied, stung. While he expected Chet to twit him about his singing abilities, he didn't expect to be criticized for attempting to facilitate a rescue.

"It lacked professionalism."

"Your professionalism was scaring her. She thought you were going to cut off her head."

"I performed my duty in accordance with established procedures…"

"This is a little girl we're talking about, not a procedure. I'm sure there's something in the manual about relating to kids on their own level," Johnny interrupted sarcastically.

"Children can be related to in a calm, professional manner. I don't believe I've ever seen anything about singing Sesame Street songs to them," responded Brice, ending the conversation.

The next few hours afforded mostly garden-variety types of runs: a diabetic woman with low blood-sugar fainting in a beauty salon, an elderly gentleman with difficulty breathing needing transport to Rampart, minor injuries from a traffic accident. While the two men didn't exactly blend together as a team, they handled every call with practiced expertise, each employing his own style. In the squad, Brice had proven resistant to Johnny's further attempts at making conversation, and at the station, the reserved paramedic usually buried himself in a manual.

The tones sounded once again. "Squad 51. Possible drug overdose. 111 Craig Court. 1-1-1 Craig Court. Apt. 2C. Cross street Double Street. Time out 13:26."

* * *

Vince and another officer pulled up to the scene just as the squad arrived. Vince greeted the two paramedics with a nod. "Sounds bad," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the apartment building. Indeed, the sounds of crashing and someone screaming on the second floor could be heard from the parking lot.

"They're locked, Gage," reminded Brice calmly as Johnny tried to open the compartments without unlocking them. Shaking out his fingers, Johnny spared Brice a glare before opening the bays. Equipment in hand, the two paramedics followed the two law enforcement officers up the stairs as they tried to push their way through the crowd of gawkers gathered around the doorway. "Everybody step back! Paramedics coming through!" Vince and the other officer cleared a path for Johnny and Brice.

Once inside, they found a disheveled man in his mid-twenties standing atop a kitchen table, waving a baseball bat in the air. As they watched, he slammed the bat against the tabletop and screamed, "Don't come in! They'll get you!"

Both paramedics halted in their tracks. Johnny visually scanned the apartment while Brice asked, "Who will get us?"

"Get them off!" screamed the man, giving the table yet another hearty thump. "They're everywhere!"

"What's everywhere?" asked Johnny.

"Giant pink cockroaches! Look out! There's one by your foot!" he yelled, pointing to the right of Johnny.

Johnny jumped back and dropped the trauma kit.

"Good one, man!" crowed the victim. "You got him!"

"I did?"

"Yeah! Smashed that sucker flat!"

"Well, are there any more?"

"Gage, stop being ridiculous. There are no pink roaches in here. Sir, you need to come down from there."

"No! I'm not coming down!"

Johnny shushed Brice and addressed the delusional man. "Do you see any more?"

"Yes! Yes! Over there!" he pointed at the wall.

Johnny picked up a nearby broom and swatted the wall several times. "Did I get 'em?"

"Yeah! Look! There's some more!"

Johnny obligingly whacked the indicated spot with a broom.

"You're wasting time. We need to assess the victim and initiate treatment."

"Well, we can't do that while he's up on the table, and he won't come down until all the pink cockroaches are gone. Do you feel like wrestling with him?" Johnny gave the floor one more pass with the broom. "That's all of them, right?"

"NO!" screamed the man, pointing at Brice. "There's one crawling up his leg!"

Johnny glanced at Brice before swishing the broom against Brice's leg a couple of times and then pounding it on the floor, while saying, "Okay, I'll knock it off, and then I'll whack it."

"Gage! Really!" protested Brice, jumping back from the paramedic whom he obviously considered to be almost as crazy as the victim.

"Okay, that's all of them, right?" Johnny asked, looking expectantly at the victim.

"Uh, yeah. Seems to be," the man replied, cautiously peering around the room.

"Why don't you come down here, so we can check you out?"

"What if they come back?" he said anxiously, eyes darting from corner to corner.

"Uhhh… Is the ambulance here yet?" he asked Vince.

"It just pulled up," replied the law enforcement officer.

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Okay. Why don't we take you to our ambulance? It's just been fumigated, so there are no pink cockroaches in there."

"Yeah, okay," said the victim agreeably, flinging himself down from the table. Brice and Johnny caught the man as he leapt, stumbling from the impetus as he crashed into them.

"Whoa! You okay there, buddy?" asked Johnny.

"Yeah! I was flyin'," giggled the man.

Brice resettled his glasses on his nose, tossed Johnny a sour look, and then requested Officer Howard to please bring their equipment back down to the ambulance.

After walking the victim down the stairs to the ambulance, the two paramedics quickly performed their assessment, set up communication with Rampart, administered the ordered IV and medication, and soon had the patient prepared for transport.

As they lifted the gurney into the ambulance, the man started to become agitated once more. "What if they come back?"

"Uhh. Here." Johnny handed him the ambu-bag. "This is filled with special pink cockroach bug spray. You can't see it, but it keeps them away. Just keep squeezing it."

"Far out, man!"

"Who's riding in?" Johnny asked Brice.

"This one is all yours, Gage," said Brice succinctly, stepping away from the ambulance.

"Okay, see you there," said Johnny, stepping up into the ambulance. "After all I've done for you, don't barf on me, man," he muttered under his breath.

* * *

"You didn't!" said Dixie with a chuckle.

"I did." Johnny set the ambu-bag down on the counter. "And I told him that this would keep the pink roaches out of the ambulance, too. I can't believe he believed me."

"Well, I guess we'll just have to call you 'the exterminator.'"

"One call does it all."

"Are you done, Gage?" inquired Brice stiffly.

Johnny closed his eyes briefly, glanced at Dixie, and said, "Yeah, Brice. Let's go."

The ride back to the station was long and uncomfortable, with Brice sitting in silent reproach of Johnny's paramedic tactics. Just as they were backing in, Johnny tried one last time to initiate a conversation with his taciturn companion.

"Brice, why don't you just loosen up a little? I'm trying to be as nice as possible."

"We're not here to socialize, Gage. We're here to do a job. You would do well to concentrate on that."

"I do my job! What is your problem?" Johnny asked as he got out of the squad.

"As I said before, you're not following established protocols. You make things up as you go. In my book, that makes you as dangerous as a loose cannon. Keys." Brice pointed to the object dangling from Johnny's fingers.

Brice watched impassively as the other paramedic crossed the few steps to replace the keys on the hook and then turned around with his arms folded across his chest. "The manuals can't cover everything, Brice. They provide the foundation and the framework. There's always going to be situations where human judgment, or improvisation, as you call it, is required."

"That's just an excuse for lack of preparation. If you spent as much time studying the manuals as trying to impress the nurses, you wouldn't feel the need to improvise." Brice turned smartly on his heel and left the other paramedic standing frozen in place with his mouth open.

"Having a meltdown, Johnny?" asked Marco in mild sympathy from the doorway where he had watched the tail end of the unfolding scene.

"Better shut your mouth before your brains leak out," added Chet helpfully over Marco's shoulder.

"Oh, shut up, Chet!" Johnny snapped, startling from his seeming trance, and abruptly spinning on his heel in the opposite direction that Brice had taken.

Chet grinned and winked at Marco before trailing Johnny to the locker room.

Johnny stood bent over the sink, splashing water on his face when Chet arrived. Leaning against the locker, with his arms crossed, Chet needled his favorite pigeon. "We made bets as to how long you would last with Brice before you lost it." Chet looked at his watch. "You barely lasted seven hours."

Johnny raised his head, face dripping, and met Chet's eyes in the mirror. "I did not lose it," he protested irritably.

"Well, from where I'm standing…."

The tones and the voice of the dispatcher interrupted Chet.

"Station 36. Station 51. Station 127. Structure collapse. North end of Maciel Ave. Cross street Dominquez. Time out 15:56."

Johnny quickly dried off his face and flung the towel in the direction of the sink as he dashed after Chet through the door toward the engine bay.


	2. Chapter 2

The crew of Station 51 arrived first on scene, where an amazing sight greeted them. A long, two-story building still under construction appeared almost broken in two, as a jaggedly-edged sinkhole had opened up underneath the western end to swallow up that part of the building.

"Someone must have really messed up with the geophysical survey," commented Cap with a grim expression.

A man wearing a hard hat broke away from the others, trying to remove the fallen debris away from what used to be a doorway. "We still have one man unaccounted for. He was laying conduit on the second floor." The man scrubbed his hand across his face. "I can't believe this."

"Do you have any idea which end of the building he was working in?"

The foreman shook his head. "No."

Cap nodded, then turned to Johnny and Brice, who were standing beside him, ready in their turnout coats and headgear. "I want you two to start on the east end," he pointed to the section that still stood, "and work your way down to the collapse."

"Okay, Cap," responded Johnny, as he and Brice headed for the building.

Turning to Chet and Marco, Cap continued speaking. "I want you to go see about moving some of that concrete away from the opening."

The arrival of more rescue apparatus and personnel drew Cap's attention, as he moved to coordinate efforts with his counterparts.

The search of both floors on the eastern end unfortunately yielded no missing workman. By the time Brice and Johnny finished, the other firefighters had managed to create an opening big enough to allow them to enter the sagging western end.

"Make it fast," ordered Cap as first Johnny and then Brice ducked through the narrow, uneven opening.

The floor initially sloped downwards at a twenty-degree angle before the weight of the structure caused it to abruptly drop off almost perpendicularly. The roof and walls had collapsed, effectively sealing the remaining section off.

As they approached, Johnny could see in his flashlight beam the crushed remains of electrical tools, the bright yellow plastic casing standing out amidst the rubble. Brice spotted a foot clad in a heavy, black work boot sticking out from under a slab of concrete and twisted rebars.

"Gage," he said, indicating the gruesome sight.

Both men crouched down to assess the victim and the situation.

"This looks like it was severed."

"Yeah. He probably was killed immediately."

Brice stood up, pulled his handie-talkie out of his pocket, and was reporting the Code F to Captain Stanley when the building shifted again, sending more of the ceiling crashing down with a deafening din, blocking the direction from which they had come.

The two paramedics dove away from the falling concrete, covering themselves as best as they could.

Coughing a little as the dust settled, Johnny and Brice rose to their feet in the now seemingly loud silence.

"You okay?" asked Johnny.

"My handie-talkie!" Brice exclaimed, rapidly scanning the floor about his feet.

"Did you drop it?"

"Yes. Where's yours?"

Johnny patted his pocket in dismay. It must have fallen out. He realized he must have dropped his flashlight somewhere as well. The two spent the next ten minutes looking for the missing objects, aided only by the sickly, greenish glow of the emergency light, which eerily enhanced the surreal landscape of twisted metal and concrete. Somehow the batteries in the overhead light had remained in place, despite the way it canted drunkenly from the ceiling.

Finally, Johnny spotted one of the handie-talkies. Picking it up and brushing it off, hoping it would still work, he tried to contact Cap. "Fireman Gage to Engine 51, over." When he released the button, both men could hear a faint hiss of static, but nothing more.

"Something must be interfering with transmission."

"That is obvious."

Johnny shot an irritated glance at Brice, then slowly turned around, eyeing the space in which they found themselves. "How big do you think this is?"

Brice considered the question. "Eight by six by eight… Approximately three hundred eighty-four cubic feet."

"Think it's air-tight?"

"I think that is a most likely probability."

"Would you say we came about thirty feet down the hall?"

"Yes. That sounds about right."

Johnny nodded grimly, then depressed the button on the handi-talkie again, on the off chance that they could send but not receive. "Engine 51, this is Fireman Gage. We are trapped in a section of hallway approximately thirty feet away from the entrance. The dimensions are roughly eight by six by eight, and the pocket seems to be sealed tight. We'll check in every thirty minutes. Over."

There was no response. He had not really expected one.

Johnny removed his turnout coat and helmet, and tried to find a comfortable place to sit down.

"You should leave those on. Regulations state…"

"It's going to get hot in here. Might as well be comfortable while we wait." Johnny glared at Brice, as if daring him to make a contradiction.

Brice returned the glare before sitting down as far away from his fellow paramedic as possible, then sat silently staring at the wall opposite him.

The only sounds were the muted creaks and groans from the building, the occasional tumble of tiny bits of rubble as gravity set them free, and the airy whisper of two men breathing. It seemed like they had been trapped for hours, although it was probably only about forty minutes. Johnny felt hot, dirty, bruised, scraped, hungry and thirsty. Despite sitting atop his turn-out coat, the crumbled bits of concrete and other debris on the floor prevented him from resting with any degree of comfort. And to top it off, not only did he have a splitting headache, he was trapped in a cave-in with someone who was a walking, breathing, headache.

"The only thing worse than being trapped in a cave-in by myself is being trapped in a cave-in with you!" Johnny blurted out. As the words filled the small space, Johnny cringed, realizing he had spoken aloud. He immediately felt remorseful. "Oh man, I didn't mean it like that. I mean, there are plenty of worse people to be trapped here with than you."

Silence.

Johnny valiantly gave it one more try. "I mean, if I had a choice between you and a screaming, fat man, I'd pick you." Johnny squirmed around, trying to find the least offensive position. "Great, Gage. You really have a way with words," he muttered as he pulled out the handie-talkie to make the semi-hourly contact with Engine 51. After receiving no reply, he leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes, resigned to his fate.

"Are you done putting your foot in your mouth yet, Gage?"

Johnny snapped his head up, mouth ajar. "Was that a joke, Brice?" The incredulity was plain in his voice.

"I know we don't particularly care for each other, but the time will pass more quickly if we attempt to treat each other with civility and engage in worthwhile conversation."

"Civility. I can do civility. I practice on Chet all the time," he mumbled to himself. "What did you have in mind, Brice?" Johnny shifted again, searching vainly for a more comfortable spot. He massaged his temples with his fingertips.

Brice noticed the movement in the dusty light. "Is your head bothering you?"

"Nah, it's just a headache," replied Johnny.

Brice took off his turnout coat and helmet before moving closer to Johnny and shined his pocket light into Johnny's eyes. Johnny had to fight the urge to swat Brice away as he mused about being able to tolerate the same concern from Roy, or even Chet, while having Brice do it made him want to smack the other paramedic.

Brice completed his examination of Johnny's head. Feeling no lumps and seeing no apparent problem with Johnny's pupils, Brice seemed to feel reasonably secure in concluding that Johnny did indeed have just a headache and not a head injury. Sitting back on his heels, he asked, "Did you ever hear of shiatsu, Gage?"

"She … shewhatsue?" Johnny's tongue tripped over the unfamiliar term.

"Shiatsu," Brice patiently repeated. "Another name for it is acupressure."

"Acupressure? Isn't that the Chinese thing with needles?" Johnny shuddered involuntarily. Despite more than a passing acquaintance with such, Johnny was no big fan of needles, especially those sticking into him.

"No, that's acupuncture." Brice warmed up to his topic. "Shiatsu is Japanese. Both are based on the same principal of meridians, or pathways within the body that allow the _qi_ or life force to circulate freely. There are several meridians, twelve of which are linked to a major organ of the body. To put it simply, when you have a headache it's because the qi is out of balance. The pressure points are in places where the meridians are close to the surface of the body. When we manipulate them, we influence the qi. Hold out your hand."

Johnny complied, curious as to what Brice was going to do. The other paramedic pressed firmly with the pads of his thumb and middle finger into the top and bottom of the fleshy web between the thumb and the base index finger of Johnny's hand, moving his fingers with a circular, dispersing motion. "This is the pressure point for relieving headaches. Manipulate it for approximately two minutes on each hand, alternating between the two hands. You should start to feel a lessening of the headache and the tension in your neck and shoulders almost immediately."

"Yeah, it's starting to feel better already." Johnny's tone held amazement. "Where'd you learn this stuff, Brice?"

"I am interested in many aspects of health care, Gage."

"Isn't this a little unorthodox for you?"

"Western medicine doesn't have a monopoly on correct principles, Gage. This knowledge was originally developed in China over thousands of years. But, rest assured, I would never use it to replace authorized procedures."

Brice moved back over to the other side of the space. Just then a chunk of concrete let loose, striking Brice a glancing blow to the head before bouncing off his shoulder. Brice yelped and Johnny was beside him in a second, firmly supporting Brice's head and neck with both hands.

"Hold still. Hold still. Don't move your head. Where do you hurt?"

"My head. And my left clavicle. I think it's broken."

"What about your neck? Any pain there?"

Brice blinked and took a breath. "No."

Johnny moved his hand to the side of Brice's head, feeling Brice wince as he touched the spot where the concrete had hit. "Sorry." He felt the sticky warmth of blood as well as a sizeable lump. "Okay, first we've got to get the bleeding stopped. I'm going to make some bandages." Johnny then removed his shirt, ripping it into four pieces. While his T-shirt might have been more absorbent, it was too sweaty to be of use. He folded the fabric into a square and applied pressure to the wound on Brice's head. As the first square soaked through, he directed Brice to hold the makeshift bandage in place while he prepared another one. "Can you reach over with your right hand? Okay, good." As he applied the new bandage over the old, he kept talking to Brice. "Okay, I've got it now. How are you doing? Are you dizzy? Nauseated?"

"I'm feeling a bit lightheaded."

"Okay. Nausea?"

"No."

Satisfied that the bleeding was starting to slow, Johnny once again directed Brice to hold onto the bandage. "I'm going to clear an area for you to lie down." He managed to push enough debris aside to make a space large enough for Brice's torso. After he spread his turnout coat on the floor, he guided Brice to lay down. "You hurt anywhere other than your head and your shoulder?" Upon receiving a negative reply, he then said, "I'm going to elevate your legs a little." After placing Brice's legs up on the rubble, he removed his T-shirt and ripped it into strips in order to secure the bandage. Once that was done, he used his pocket light to check Brice's pupils and then took the vitals.

Sitting back on his heels, he wiped his face with his forearm and pushed the hair back off his forehead. "I'm going to call in. I don't know if that shift was due to something they did, or just more natural settling."

Call made, he set the communication device aside and regarded Brice. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay." The phrase 'I'm okay' served as firefighter code for 'I'm not dead.'

"Mind if I check?"

"Go ahead."

Johnny rapidly ran his hands down all of Brice's extremities and then palpated the ribs and abdomen. Upon receiving no further indications of pain from Brice, he said, "I'm going to check your collar bone, okay?" Brice gasped as Johnny's fingers gently explored the area. "I think you're right. It feels like it's broken. If you're no longer feeling so dizzy, I'd like to sit you up and immobilize it for you."

"Okay." Brice began to try to sit up.

"No, no, no. You let me do all the work. You're just along for the ride."

Johnny eased Brice back up to a sitting position. "You okay? Dizzy?" Brice indicated that he was feeling okay. Johnny began to unbutton the other man's shirt and then carefully slipped it off him. "I'm going to cut off your T-shirt, too." Johnny first made a sling. Then he tied Brice's arm to his body. "How's that feel?"

"That's better."

"Okay, wait a minute. Let me get the other turnout coat here. Okay. Let's lay you back down."

Once Brice was settled, he asked, "Do you see my glasses?"

"No. Let me look." Johnny stood up and took a step forward. Something crunched under his foot and he cringed, gingerly lifting up his foot.

"Uh, found 'em. Sorry. Still want 'em?"

"No. That's all right."

"I should have left my turnout gear on."

"It might have protected your head, but not your shoulder. Besides, it's too hot in here."

They were silent for a few minutes. Finally Brice spoke. "You improvise pretty well."

"Thank you."

They sat in silence for a moment longer, then Johnny spoke again. "You know, I didn't mean to offend you with that thing with the broom. I was just trying to humor the victim."

"I have a suggestion. Let's review paramedic protocols to pass the time. That way we'll gain a better understanding of how the other thinks."

"Uh, okay," Johnny agreed dubiously. This definitely would not have been a topic for conversation that he would have chosen, but since Brice was injured, Johnny would indulge him.

"I'll begin. Suppose you were called to the scene of a traffic accident in which a female driver had struck a bridge abutment. Upon visual assessment, she is found to be bleeding from a forehead laceration, coughing blood and experiencing respiratory difficulty. She did not appear to have been wearing a seat belt. What would you do?"

"Uh, I would palpate for a jaw fracture and tracheal depression and crepitus."

"Good. Why?"

"Because she is experiencing upper airway obstruction and fractures of the trachea are likely to follow blunt injury."

"That is correct. Your turn."

"Umm." Johnny's headache was making a comeback, despite his vigorous massaging of the pressure point. "Okay. You are called to the scene where an elderly man was dancing, felt dizzy, and collapsed. When you get there, he's pale, confused, experiencing tachycardia, and has a BP of 60 over zero. What would you think and do?"

"He's bleeding internally. What do I find when I palpate the abdomen?"

"It's tense," Johnny replied tersely.

"The victim would need Lactated Ringers and a MAST suit. Possibly a ruptured abdominal aneurysm is causing the bleeding."

"Yup, you got it."

Brice launched into another example, which Johnny dutifully explained. They did this for a few more scenarios, until Johnny said, "Let me check your vitals and this dressing again." Satisfied that Brice seemed to be stable, he said, "Looking good. Time to tell them we're still here."

After he made the call, he held up a hand to forestall any further conversation from the man on the floor. "Brice, I've got to tell you, I've had about all I can take of this procedural review. Let's talk about something else."

"What would you suggest, Gage?"

"How about sports? Which football teams do you like?"

"I don't watch football. It's a pointless game. The only thing more pointless than football is baseball."

"Uh…" Johnny swallowed his irritation and tried another topic. "Well, I know you like running. Didn't you do the marathon in the last fireman's Olympics?"

"Yes. I did."

"I like to run, too. I did some track in high school. But, I've never done a marathon."

"Marathons aren't all that difficult. It's only twenty-six point two miles."

"Yeah, but didn't the first guy to run a marathon die right afterwards?"

"No. That only happened in the poem 'Pheidippides,' by Robert Browning. In actuality, Pheidippides was a Greek '_hemerdromos_' or 'all day runner.' The '_hemerdromoi_' served as messengers and could run all day, for distances well over a hundred miles. There is historical documentation that Pheidippides made a run of about 150 miles to Sparta, which took him around a day and a half. The Mayans also had a cult of messenger-runners that could do the same thing."

"Wow. How do you know all this stuff?"

"I read a lot."

"Oh. Well, how do you prepare for something like that?"

"Reading?"

Johnny hesitated for just an instant before choosing to respond to the comment as if it were a joke. "Ha, ha, Brice. A marathon."

"It's a matter of training and consistency. I have a book that details marathon preparation. I could lend it to you, if you are interested."

"Yeah, I'd like to see that. Maybe we could run together sometime."

"I prefer to run alone."

"Brice!"

"Yes?"

"Never mind. Well, what else do you like… Hey! Do you hear that?" The muffled sound of heavy machinery seemed to thrum through the concrete.

"Yes. I hope they get here in time."

"Me, too." Johnny paused, thinking about what would happen if they didn't get there in time. He shook his head, as if to clear away that thought. "Uh, what was I saying?"

"You were asking me what I like."

"Oh. Yeah. What else do you like to do on your days off? Do you have any hobbies?"

"I enjoy photography."

"Really?"

"Yes. I was a photographer for both my high school and college newspapers."

"Wow! I was an editor for my high school newspaper. See, we have something else in common! Where did you go to school?"

"Back east."

"Back east? Did you grow up there?"

"Yes. I'm from New Jersey." Being injured and trapped in a small, enclosed space, with a high probability of not getting out before the oxygen supply was exhausted, must have impelled Brice to talk, because his life's story started to flow out of him. "My parents are still there. I was an only child. We lived in a big house, in one of those gated communities. The neighbors were all very self-contained, very busy pursuing the American dream. My father was busy with his career. My mother was busy with her country club. Even the housekeeper was busy. My mother would have a fit if anything were out of place. Our house resembled something you might see in a women's magazine. I learned to be very organized at an early age."

Well, that certainly explained a lot of things. "So, how did you end up becoming a firefighter instead of a photographer?"

"I usually don't discuss my reasons with other people." He hesitated a minute before continuing. "If you say anything to anybody, I'll tell them you were delirious from a head injury."

"I don't have a head injury."

"Then, I may have to give you one."

Johnny's jaw dropped and he started to laugh.

"I'm not joking."

Johnny peered uncertainly through the dim light at Brice, unable to gauge his expression clearly.

"Gotcha."

Johnny smiled aggrievedly, wondering not for the first time if there were a big, neon sign visible to everybody but him that hung suspended over his head reading, '_Gullible!_' "Okay, so what's your story?" he asked, as he reached for Brice's wrist to continue monitoring the vitals.

"When I was nine-years-old, I was on a school bus, returning from a school excursion, when we became stopped in traffic because a building farther up the street was on fire. The engine stopped a few car lengths ahead of the bus, right in the middle of the intersection, rolled out the hose and put out the fire. I remember watching the whole thing-the smoke, the flames, the men, the water, the flashing lights. It was a classic fire scene, the kind you see on television, and I was fascinated. Are you sure you want to hear this, Gage?" Brice noticed that Johnny began to rub his temples again. "You look like you have a headache."

"Yeah, Brice. I really do. Want to hear your story, I mean." Johnny shifted in another futile attempt to get more comfortable.

"After that, I pestered my parents for a toy fire truck, but they didn't believe in those kinds of toys. They preferred educational games. I suppose I must have been relentless, because I did eventually get a little, red fire engine. It was a model that I had to put together and paint myself. I still have it. Fortunately, they did approve of books and reading. Whenever we went to the library, I would borrow books about firefighters. In high school, when I worked on the paper, I would sometimes cover fires as a photographer. I even won a prize for one of the photographs."

"Really? Do you still have it?"

"The prize or the picture?"

"Uh. Both, I guess."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you just say so the first time?" Johnny grumbled sotto voce to himself. It always seemed like it took Brice forever to get to the point.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," Johnny said a bit more loudly. "You still didn't tell me how you ended up being a firefighter instead of a photographer."

Brice sighed. "I… My parents didn't want me to become a photographer. For that matter, my parents never wanted me to be a firefighter, either. They said it was too 'working class.' I went to an Ivy League college when I was 16 and I graduated with a degree in liberal arts after three years. Then, I began post-graduate work, but I dropped out. My parents were extremely disappointed. As soon as I turned 21, I came out here, took the civil service exam, and the rest, as they say, is history."

Interested in Brice's history, Johnny asked, "What made you apply for the paramedic program?"

"I … I witnessed some unnecessary deaths. I knew they could have been prevented if only trained personnel had been available. I am in this for the people, Gage. But I also firmly believe in doing things by the book."

Johnny nodded , even though the movement would not be seen in the light that was growing dimmer with each passing moment. The battery was running out, along with the oxygen.

"What about you? Why did you become a firefighter and a paramedic?" queried Brice.

"I didn't have anything better to do. I mean, that's how I became a firefighter. I dropped out of college and was living with my aunt here in California. I was working as a stockboy in a grocery store. He laughed, remembering. "Not exactly a career with a future. I saw the ad about the civil service exam, so I took it, did well enough, and, like you say, the rest is history. But, I did become a paramedic because I wanted to help people. That's the most important thing for me. The people."

"One thing I do admire about you is the rapport you seem to be able to establish with patients."

"You know, if you'd just lighten up a little, you wouldn't have any problems."

"What do you mean by that?" Brice surrounded himself with a fortified wall of personal space. While this wall served to protect him from the verbal darts that others frequently tossed his way, it also prevented him from forming close friendships. Friendships like the one shared between Roy and Johnny.

"You seem to have a really high need to be in control and to be perfect. Hell, I do, too. All paramedics do, to some degree. It's what makes us good at what we do." The words of his recent conversations with the LACoFD psychiatrist still remained fresh in his mind. "But, uh, you are kind of extreme, Brice."

"I believe we are better able to function if we are not emotionally engaged."

"I know. You've told me.."

The two fell silent again. Brice spoke first. "What you said about perfectionism and control makes some sense, Gage. Where did you learn that?"

"Uhhh…" Johnny figured he'd better disclose something, since Brice had been fairly forthcoming with personal information. "From the shrink. I kind of had, uh, a bad time when I thought I lost my license." Johnny was grateful for the dim light that hid the embarrassment staining his cheeks.

"You did look rather haggard the day I treated you," Brice observed.

"Really?" Johnny asked, wondering just how bad he had looked on Thanksgiving Day. Two weeks after that, his appearance had been compared to that of a dead tuna, with apologies to the tuna.

"At the time, I assumed it was due to the exertion of the rescue. I can now see in retrospect that the cause was probably emotional stress. Why were you so upset? You still had a job."

Johnny muttered to himself, under his breath, "Thank you, Dr. Brice. Next topic." Shifting uncomfortably around on the rocky seat, he replied loudly enough for Brice to hear, "I had a hard time separating who I was from what I did. Do you think it's getting stuffier in here?"

Ignoring the query, Brice chose to address the hotter subject. "I was not unaffected by losing my license, Gage."

At last! This was what Johnny really wanted to know, but had not found an opportunity to ask during the day. "What do you mean?"

"It gave me momentary pause."

Johnny waited for Brice to say more. "That's it?" When Brice volunteered nothing further, Johnny asked, "What made you decide to challenge Brackett about the exam?"

"I knew I was right."

"You knew you were right?" Johnny exclaimed in surprise. "How could you know that?"

"I have a photographic memory."

"So that's why they call you the walking rule book," Johnny mused aloud. "Uh, sorry," he added, flushing. Maybe he did have a head injury after all; he couldn't seem to stop saying embarrassing things.

"No offense taken, Gage. I've heard that before. What about you? Why didn't you challenge the results? You may be a little unorthodox at times, but you are a decent paramedic."

"Uh, I had my reasons. Hey, why don't you become a doctor, or something? You're certainly smart enough."

"My father is a doctor."

"Oh." Then he added, "You know, Brice, I think it really is getting hotter in here."

"Hotter than you know," Brice said nearly inaudibly.

Both men ceased speaking. The temperature in the room did indeed seem to be rising. It could only mean that the oxygen was beginning to run out.

"Gage, I …"

"Shhh!" Johnny interrupted. "Listen!"

A scrabbling behind the rubble could be heard. Some debris began to tumble from the wall to the ground. Johnny automatically tried to shield Brice with his body. Then he saw the end of a pipe poke through, bringing with it a flow of fresh oxygen.

"Looks like they found us." Both the grin and the relief were evident in Johnny's voice.

"Yes." Brice sounded relieved, too. "Gage. This conversation never happened."

"What conversation?"

"I think we should review extraction protocols while we wait for them to break through the rubble."

"Brice, I think you should just lie there and be still. I know your head and collarbone hurt and I really have a headache, too."

Chet came into the locker room as Johnny was telling Roy about being trapped in the cave-in with Brice. Marco and Mike were also listening.

"So, how come he's not dead?" Chet wanted to know when Johnny was finished.

"He's okay once you get to know him. He can actually be pretty funny."

"Brice? Funny? You must have driven him crazy!" Chet was incredulous.

"No, I think he must have driven Johnny crazy," Marco put in.

"He was already crazy."

"I think they drove each other crazy," added Mike.

"You know, I think Johnny assaulted him. No way a piece of concrete would fall on Brice if it had the opportunity to fall on Gage instead," said Chet.

"Nah. If I were concrete, I would love to bean Brice," laughed Marco.

Johnny finished tying his shoelace amidst the laughter. "Roy? Just don't go on vacation again any time soon!"

"I thought you just said you didn't mind working with him."

"No, I never said that. I said he was okay, once you get to know him. Did you know he actually alphabetizes the drug box? And he lines up the edges of the 4x4's in the trauma box, too. Then there's his thing with locking the compartment doors all the time. I darn near ripped my fingers off. And he quotes the flippin' manual constantly. I swear, if I heard 'according to the manual,' one more time, I was going to stuff it up his nose..."

The conversation continued on the way to roll call. Another day at Station 51 had begun.


End file.
